An Interlude in the Rain
by swishandflickwit
Summary: Strange things happen in the rain... but even better things can happen in the sunshine.


**AN: Because everyone deserves a declaration of love beneath the rain a la Pride and Prejudice (2005) style at least _once_ in their life, am I right?**

 **Musical inspiration: Look After You by The Fray**

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Anne had been reading in the park when it happened.

She hadn't seen it coming, no one had, really—the sky a glistening spread of light azure, the wind hot, the sun high and bearing down it's full resplendence with not a cloud in sight.

At least it _was_ … until this!

 _A torrential downpour._

By the time Anne noticed the rapid darkening of the heavens—so engrossed was she in her book—the deluge was upon her and the pavilion full of bodies who were of the like mind to seek refuge beneath it.

So she was running, running, searching for a safe haven when—

"Anne!"

Gilbert Blythe ran up to her, his coat hanging over his head by his arms, of which he included her when he reached her side.

"Anne Shirley-Cuthbert!" he exclaimed. "What on earth are you doing out here in the middle of the rain?"

Anne's arms flailed as she gestured wildly towards the dome teeming with people. "It's full!"

Upon observation of their surroundings, he jerked his chin at the nearest pine tree. "It will have to do!"

Indeed, for the rainfall poured in earnest now, making far-sighted visibility downright nonexistent. And so they made for the trees with haste but not before Gilbert cloaked her head with his jacket. Were it another time, Anne would have been incensed by the action. As it was, she was too upset with the state of her book, and her clothes, to pay it any mind.

She was bemoaning at their drenched condition when they reached the cover of the canopy.

"I was so _close_ to the end too!" she wailed. "Are unknown endings or unfinished chronicles forever to be my fate?"

Gilbert chuckled. "I'll buy you a new book."

"You most certainly will not!" Anne looked at him askew. "I can pay for my _own_ books, thank you very much and—and, oh, _why are you laughing?_ "

Anne stomped her foot. He laughed that much harder.

"You—you look ridiculous!"

"Says the one who looks like a drowned rat!"

(In the interest of fair storytelling, they _both_ looked ridiculous, pale and doused as they were)

Gilbert could not stop laughing and eventually, Anne softened, marveling at the absurdity of the situation till she too, joined at his chortles.

Eventually, their giggles faded, but not before Gilbert arranged his jacket carefully about her person, removing it from her head and settling it about her shoulders. Then, he took a hand to her braids, arraying them gently away from her face.

Anne felt herself hold her breath when his knuckles brushed her cheek.

And stayed there.

"You're so cold," he whispered. Never mind that so was he, bereft of a coat and his breath an icy whisper of air with every sigh he exhaled. His knuckles lingered there, and when she did not pull away, he grew bold—sliding them to the sharp angle of her jaw, down to the soft skin of her neck in a caress so tender, so _excruciating_ in its slowness, that she found herself tilting her neck to receive more of his attention.

Anne felt her skin heat, Gilbert's eyes ashen, molten pools of longing that traced the path of her flush. For once, she wasn't of the mind to look away.

She dropped her book, paying no heed to the mud that spattered the edge of her skirt on impact. She forgot it, and the rain, for the world had narrowed to him, her and the point in which they touched.

Her blood felt like gunpowder in her veins, ready to ignite at any moment—at any contact.

But he remained unhurried, his motions precise with the intent to leave her wanting, she was sure. After all.

He always knew how to drive her mad.

He withdrew then and she made a mewling noise that would have been louder, had she not bit her lip to restrain herself. Gilbert gulped. His gaze felt like a living touch on her body, grazing her lips, her neck, and her chest—rising and falling with every hitch and gasp she emitted—before reclaiming her unflinching stare.

"May I?"

 _May I what_ , she wondered for a curt instant before casting that thought aside in quick succession. He could have asked her to bring the sun back, impossible it may have been, and still she would have agreed. She would do anything he asked, so long as he continued to place his hands on her.

So she nodded, and was rewarded when he took both her hands and cupped them in his.

"Let me warm you up," he murmured against the skin of her open palms, his voice silken with igneous desire. The rainfall grew stronger and louder, an ornery backdrop to this strange yet ethereal abeyance. He stepped closer till her back hit the trunk of the tree, then closer still, so that he would be heard and there was no mistaking his request. "Won't you let me warm you up, sweet, sweet, Anne?"

"Yes," she answered with a childish, excitable eagerness. "Yes."

She watched with baited breath as he rubbed gently at her hands before he brought them close to his mouth. Then…

He blew on them.

His breath was light... gentle and cool. Except the rain was even cooler and so it barely grazed her skin. But she felt it, she felt _him_ , and he was _everywhere_. He felt embedded into her blood, her bones. He was seared into her skin and sunken into her sinew. He became the voice in her head and the very beat of her heart. He was ingrained into her soul.

"Anne," he sighed. How _did_ he do that? No one ever said her name the way Gilbert had, imbued with so much meaning—like it was both a question and an answer, a sin and a prayer.

"Yes," she languished, her hands waking from a stupor and creeping up his arms before settling onto his chest. His were on her waist now, beneath his jacket, hot in a way that had nothing to do with the cloth and everything to do with the lack of distance between them. She had no recollection how they wound their way there, but found she didn't mind at all.

For she could feel the throb of his heart, strong and oh, so, swift—an exact echo of her own. Gilbert's body was atop hers, every hard line pressed against her downy curves till they were a rippling extension of one other, pulled by an inexplicable gravity that demanded he sink into her embrace. He felt divine.

He felt _right_.

Yet... though his touch was a most rapturous experience, she craved more.

She wanted to _taste_.

"Anne, Anne…" he hummed, his hand gliding up her spine. How she wanted to _melt_ into him. His hooded eyes bore into hers, and she had never felt more connected to him. He tilted his head and she followed, her lips touching at the hollow of his throat just as his found their way into the crown of her head. He breathed her in, and how she smelled of flowers and sunshine and all the goodness the world had to offer.

"Yes," she murmured against his skin, a smile branding itself onto her mouth.

Anne's hands were in his hair. _How strange_ , she wondered, _how had they gotten there?_ It was as if Gilbert was familiar to her as her own body, that they seemed to know their way around and she knew exactly where to stroke or kiss, so that she may illicit in him the most delicious sounds.

He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the bridge of her nose. Her face was a map and her lips the destination. She felt like a powder keg, was there ever such a thing as cold? For no one was trembling now, at least not from the frigid wind. He traced a path to her mouth, leaving a trail of fire in his wake and she felt ready to explode by the time he reached her jaw… the corner of her mouth.

Except it wasn't her that was alight.

There was a flash of lightning, followed closely by a clap of thunder, and whatever bubble that encased them, or spell that bewitched them, it had broken.

"I'm with Roy," she blurted, unsure of who she was reminding, him or her. Shame filled her that she _needed_ reminding at all and with more conviction, she repeated, "I'm _with_ Roy."

With heavy hands and an even heavier heart, she untangled herself from his embrace, though not far enough that Gilbert completely loosened his hold on her waist.

"You have to let me go," she uttered though her eyes were wide with misery.

His hold on her grew that much tighter and for a moment, her heart soared. But he did as she bid him, and stepped back.

Guilt weighed heavy on her chest.

He said nothing in return, merely asked that he see her safely home. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, for once. She knew that if she did, her words would unravel her, her thoughts unwinding like a fallen spool of thread, every emotion bare, every insecurity to be picked apart.

(Not that Gilbert would do that to her. She was terribly confused but in her heart of hearts, she knew that much)

But Gilbert was her friend, and she was promised to another. Royal Gardner was the Ideal Man of her childhood, the one of her dreams. He checked every item off her list. He was everything a prince ought to be—he was her knight in shining armor.

(So why was Gilbert always the one to save her?)

No matter. They would reach Patty's Place, she would say her goodbyes and it would be as if it never happened at all.

So she did, almost mechanical in her actions even, and she was home free.

That was, until Gilbert stopped her, a hand to her wrist. It slid down to her hand. He raised them to his lips and though they were nowhere near as close as they were beneath the pine trees, she felt it once more—that unflinching, indecipherable line that connected them and fused their souls.

He kissed her knuckles, each one, and held her gaze the entire time. Not even the storm could dim their silver brightness, nor extinguish their hungering fire.

"I understand that you are with another, but you _must_ know. There is no other one for me. There never will be another. It's _you_ , Anne."

He stole her breath.

"It's you."

Upon entering Patty's Place, she was stopped by Philippa, who cried at her appearance.

"Anne!" she scolded, as she fetched a towel from the kitchen and patted her friend down, who shivered but remained otherwise unmoved. "You're going to catch your death in those clothes, you're drenched! And—whose coat is this?"

She looked to Anne for answers, Phil's face a picture in confusion when she saw her own stunned expression.

"Anne?" she prompted. "What's the matter? Why, you look like you've seen a ghost!"

"Oh Phil," Anne whispered, for it wasn't a ghost Anne saw but something very, very real. "I think I've made a terrible mistake... a most grievous error!"

"What do you mean?" Phil urged in desperate tones for she genuinely worried now.

Anne, however, did not hear her. For she saw that she _had_ made a horrible mistake—but which?

Was it in being with Roy?

Or _not_ being with Gilbert?

Outside, the rain stopped.

She ran out the door, the sun blinding and effulgent, though Anne didn't stop to think about that.

After all, she had a coat to return... a wrong to right.

Fate could wait, she was determined. Anne had her own story, and it was hardly unfinished.

It had only begun.

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 **AN: I come up with weird things when I'm sick lol. Come say hi to me on tumblr! ;)**


End file.
